


Effervescence

by viceindustrious



Category: Sherlock Holmes (2009)
Genre: Advent Challenge 2010, M/M, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-20
Updated: 2011-06-20
Packaged: 2017-10-20 14:26:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/213730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/viceindustrious/pseuds/viceindustrious
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Blood and broken bones.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Effervescence

**Author's Note:**

> Written for day nine of the adventchallenge. Prompt: Bauble. And of course the always inspirational unsettledink .

The lantern that houses your soul is not made of stained glass. No. The bright, charming colours of your humanity have been painted on. A bauble with a thin overlay of varnish and beneath that brittle shell, a volatile nothing, a blistering void so cold it burns.

The hunger is always there, but he gives you _appetite._

He gives you _everything_.

Now he looks up at you and his eyes are rimmed with red, his cheeks are wet from tears. In your heart, something sleek and immense writhe-rises like a plume of smoke and opens its jaws wide.

You close your hand around the bump in his arm and squeeze and the way he shrieks makes you wonder if the back of this throat can be stripped here tonight, scream by scream until he's bleeding and your cock comes back slick and red after you fuck his mouth.

You want to see blood frothing pink on his lips like signs of the madness you know is cradling him in its arms, adoring. He sobs beneath you as you drag him over the desk and push his broken arm up behind his back. You can feel the bones as they grind against each other, in your head the noise is chalky, brittle, his blood is being polluted by a cloud of white powder.

You wish it were true. Little shards of bone spreading through his veins like glass dust. Pain everywhere, agony constant and unrelenting and still he'd smile at you and bow his head and whisper _my Lord_ where the tongue of your shoe meets the tongue of his mouth.

You swallow his offerings whole and prowl back, licking your chops, demanding more. He wants you to feed from him but all you can take is appetite, his flesh slides across his bones when you grasp it, feels as though it might slip off as easily as a glove.

Hear how he moans when you fuck him, watch how he blanches as you force his broken arm further up his back with every thrust, leaning into your grip, how the jagged edge of the bone is pushing up against his skin. A dead tree almost breaking the surface of the water, a dangerous place to swim.

His hair is shiny with sweat and oil, your palms are damp as you take a handful and pull his head back. His body tightens beautifully around you and you slam his face back down onto the hard mahogany of the table. There's a crack, his nose or his teeth and then a gush of blood and the coarse, sodden sound of his choking.

You lean over his shoulder and press your face against his own, warm and wet. His lashes flutter against your cheek like the antennae of insects, beetles, the little necrophagists that will never touch either of you, for you do not plan to die.

This close you can hear him giggling, the sound as giddy as champagne bubbles, as the bubbles in his blood as he tries to breathe. Love stuttered through the iron soaked epiphany of his howl as the bone surfaces, red and white and gleaming.

You rub the knub of bone as you kiss him. He kisses you back, tongue laving across the roof of your mouth, like one famished. You know the design engraved on the ornament of his soul is your own crest. You could crush that into glass dust too.

But you don't.


End file.
